A stoic black haired Englishman sits at his oak desk starring at the typewriter. A drink stiffer than an adolescents cock awaits him as he rubs his face in a groggy awakening. He looks at his unmade bed noticing the woman who was there last night has fled. "Shit," he thinks to himself "never will wake up with one next to me." His journey is a lonely one as he is finally noticing that he is aging into his 30s. He fills the emptiness of others with bourbon. The Makers Mark runs through his veins and capillaries at 10 am on a Tuesday afternoon. His apartment consists of dark brown wood, a couple of photographs from his fathers days in the Navy, a collection of different types of amber colored liqueurs,antique guns collected in a cherry wood cabinet and one .38 special which was always under his pillow. He rarely leaves, not as much as he used to at least. In his 20s he was a true renaissance man, a different type of writer, now he was apparently finished. Well thats what the times said at least.